Myopia (Or, How Sherlock Holmes Got Glasses)
by RainyDays-and-DayDreams
Summary: For a prompt from StuckInMyDayDream- Sherlock is having trouble deducing things, and has no idea what is going on. John, of course, has the answer, and Sherlock isn't happy to hear it. Johnlock fluff in its purest form. T for language.


_**A/N:This was for a prompt, from my friend StuckInMyDayDream. Enjoy, my dear. Rainy's Ramble to follow at the bottom.**_

_**Disclaimer: Ain't none of this mine. Not even the prompt. (The interpretation of said prompt is mine, though, and I will defend it with my life.)**_

* * *

Sherlock didn't notice the fact his vision was worsening overnight.

Of course, he did notice when his deductions weren't as sharp as usual, nor did they come as easily. He was irritated when he began to miss minor details. When street names and license plate number began to blur, to the point where he couldn't read them until he was very close to them, he began to grow concerned.

Still, the thought his vision my be becoming bad didn't cross his mind. He was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes did not suffer from something as boring and ordinary as myopia.

He began to scour the internet, trying to find various reasons as to why he was missing out on these details, why it was becoming harder and harder to make accurate deductions, why he couldn't see all the leaves on trees anymore.

Nearly all the websites offered some terminal disease or myopia as the causes.

Sherlock would slam the laptop closed in disgust every time he saw one of these potential explanations.

Eventually, he wondered if it was his lifestyle choices. Loathe as he was to admit it, perhaps John was right, and he did need to eat and sleep more. Maybe then he'd see improvement in- well, whatever was wrong.

Three days into his plan, John began to worry.

In all the years he'd known Sherlock, even after he'd become romantically involved with the man, he'd never seen him once eat willingly while on a case. Or sleep, for that matter.

Now they were three days into case and not only had Sherlock been eating and sleeping, but he'd been eating three meals a day and sleeping eight hours a night.

Something was very seriously wrong.

On the fourth day, as Sherlock began to eat his lunch (not enthusiastically, John noticed, but in more of a resigned fashion), John spoke up.

"Sherlock?" he began.

Sherlock looked up from his _(dull, chef hated cooking, only did it because family forced him to, overcooked, under-seasoned)_ chicken, and looked at John. "Yes?" he asked

John stared at him. And blinked. And stared some more. How the hell did one confront someone about doing something you'd been bugging them for years to do?

"Anytime now, John," Sherlock quipped. He doubted the chicken would taste any better cold.

John sighed, searched his brain once more for anything, anything at all that could give him any clues as to how to start the conversation, and finding none, he decided, _"Oh, to hell with it,"_ and looked at Sherlock. "Why are you eating?"

Sherlock knew exactly what John was talking about, of course, but he'd never let him go that easily. "I've been informed multiple times by others, mainly you and Mrs. Hudson, that I need to eat to survive." He lifted his fork to make his point. "So, eating."

John knew that Sherlock knew what he was taking about, and that Sherlock was being difficult on purpose, and damn him, why couldn't he just cooperate for once? "But Sherlock," he half-growled with frustration, "You're _eating_ eating." Damn him and his lack of ability to speak eloquently, unlike a certain man sitting in front of him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Yes, John, I believe we've established that. Well done. Keep that up, and you might be able to tell what it is I'm eating." He lifted his fork again. "I'll give you a hint- it's not a plant or mineral."

One day John was going to throttle that man. It was looking more and more like today would be that day.

"Sherlock," he spit through his gritted teeth, "Just tell me what the fuck is going on, or I will-" John searched for an adequate threat- "hide Billy again."

Sherlock snorted. He'd find the skull again within a day.

"I'll take the head away from the fridge."

That was slightly more troublesome, but could easily be fixed by another trip to Bart's morgue.

"I'll tell Molly to keep you out of the morgue."

Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm. "You wouldn't," he growled.

John grinned, knowing he'd made his point. "I can and I will."

Sherlock stared at him for a minute, trying to deduce if John was being serious, and realizing he was, slumped in defeat.

John would've felt bad, but his concern for Sherlock took precedence.

Sherlock sat still for a few moments before speaking up. "You see that menu over there, John?" he asked, pointing.

John looked. "Yeah, I can see it," he said, not quite understanding where Sherlock was going with this.

"Can you read it?"

John looked again. "Yes."

Sherlock slumped even further, looking pitiable. "I can't," he muttered.

John looked at him, concerned. "What do you mean, you can't?"

Sherlock growled, pulling his hands through his hair in frustration. "Look at that tree," he said. "You can see leaves, maybe even count them. I see a green mass. They're all-" he made a face- "fuzzy. And John, I can't deduce, because I can't see things more than two feet away from me clearly, and-" Sherlock fell into silence. He then looked up at John, looking like he was about to receive a death sentence. "I thought eating better, like you told me to, would help."

John stared for a few moments, processing this information. Then he grinned, and chuckled.

Sherlock looked horrified. "John, this is not something to be laughing about. I could be dying-"

"No, Sherlock, you're not dying. Come on," John said, standing up, "I think you need to see an eye doctor."

* * *

Sherlock, most definitely, did not like doctor's offices.

Not that he disliked doctors, though. (In a fact, a few sources could inform you that he quite likes them- one former army doctor in particular.)

Just- he disliked being a patient.

He decided he hated eye doctor's offices in particular.

The doctor himself was very kind (mid-fourties, married, two kids, former alcoholic but long-time sober, was that dog or cat hair?, damn his vision), but Sherlock disliked having to look into all those infernal devices and reading the letters off the wall (apparently they no longer did the same wall chart, pity, he could have recited it from memory and left this infernal place), and most of all, he hated being told something was wrong with his vision.

"Myopia," the doctor was saying. "He's shortsighted. Not severely, but badly enough it isn't considered a minor case."

John nodded his head in an understanding fashion, while Sherlock reeled. What did this man mean, he had myopia? No, that was unacceptable. There must be some other explanation, some other possible cause for his vision trouble-

"Does he work with chemicals, or things that could potentially damage contact lenses often?" the doctor asked, scribbling on his pad. Sherlock briefly considered taking the pad and throwing it across the room.

"Actually, yes," John said. "Quite frequently."

Sherlock shot John a look. (Glare would be more accurate.)

"Well," the doctor said, "Here's his prescription. My recommendation would be to get glasses."

Sherlock was horrified. Glasses? Him? Terribly inconvenient things, glasses were. They could fall off, or get damaged-

"Thank you, doctor," John said, taking Sherlock by the hand and slowly dragging him out the door, sensing his impending meltdown.

No, Sherlock did not like eye doctor's offices especially.

* * *

"No."

"Sherlock, you need them-"

"I said no, John!"

"Sherlock," John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You need glasses. Your vision isn't going to get better."

Sherlock sat in his chair, sulking. (Oh, he could deny it all he wanted, but John knew that's what it was- pure, unadulterated sulking.)

"Sherlock," John started again, "It will help you see. Which means you'll be able to deduce things again."

Sherlock turned around, burying his face in the leather.

John knew Sherlock was uncomfortable with the prospect of getting glasses. He knew he would be uncomfortable, had he been faced with a similar prospect. But Sherlock needed them.

John checked his mental "Rules For Dealing With Sherlock" book._ When logic fails, try flattery._

John knelt down on the floor next to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he said softly.

Sherlock looked up from the chair. "What?" he asked, petulantly.

John smiled. "I think you'd look handsome with glasses."

Sherlock looked at him, examining him. "Really?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course," John said, smiling. He wasn't lying- he just never would have pointed this fact out to Sherlock had the man just agreed to go get glasses.

Sherlock still looked as if he didn't believe John.

"I'm telling the truth," John sighed. "Now go get your coat on, and we can get this over with."

Sherlock was left with no other option but to comply.

* * *

They'd found some relatively nice frames (John liked them because he thought they suited Sherlock, Sherlock liked them because they were less likely to fall of his face), and were now waiting for the call which said the glasses were ready for pick-up.

The shop, as it turned out, had had a service which allowed the lenses and frames ready by the end of the day, provided the prescription wasn't too strong, which Sherlock's wasn't.

So now they waited.

They were in the middle of Tesco's when they got the call.

John hung up, grabbing the cart to take to the self service checkout, Sherlock trailing behind.

* * *

Once they were back at the shop, Sherlock stared at the glasses.

"Well, go on, then," the lady who wad assisting them said. "Try them on."

Sherlock shot her a glare.

John coughed awkwardly. "Sorry about that," he mouthed. "If you'll give us a minute," he continues out loud. She smiles at them, before leaving them be.

Sherlock stares at the objects. He does not want them. He doesn't need them, he could find some alternative, laser surgery perhaps-

"Sherlock."

Sherlock determinedly keeps his head turned away.

"Sherlock, please look at me."

So Sherlock looks up, and when he does, John is right there, holding the glasses in his hand, and he gently slips them onto Sherlock's face.

And Sherlock can _see._

He gasps aloud with awe, because he'd forgotten how nice it was to actually see, to see that John had shaved yesterday, that the owner of this shop is cheating on his wife, that the person currently walking past the door is a football player-

Oh, this is _wonderful_.

Sherlock grabs John's face and pulls him down for a searing kiss, something John would have been more than happy to reciprocate were the shop lady not staring at them, waiting for them to finish. So John pulls back, whispers, "Soon," and allows the woman to look at Sherlock, make sure the glasses fit him properly.

Later that night, once back at 221B and said thorough-snogging session had been had, John sat browsing through the comments on his blog while Sherlock bounced through the flat, examining every detail that he hadn't been able to see in quite some time.

He sits back down, satisfied, just as John closes his laptop. John smiles, features Sherlock over, and Sherlock complies, putting his head on top of John's chest.

John places a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock's head, burying his face in the dark curls, before pulling back and slowly drifting off into sleep.

Sherlock smiles, pulls his glasses off and places them on the table, before falling asleep as well.

Not much had changed in 221B, after all. It was just a normal night, like any other, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson slept with person they loved more than anything else in the world.

* * *

**_Rainy's Ramble: Hello. To those who are uninitiated, I like to ramble at the bottom of my stories. You don't have to read it if you don't want to, but I have been informed that they are rather amusing. However, if you really like this, please leave a review- they make my day. :)_**

**_And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming._**

**_Hey guys! A LOT of shit has happened recently, so much so that I actually have no clue where to start. I suppose I should start with the most immediate._**

**_It is now time at mys school to pick classes, and I have three options at this point. I could a) Take the AP route, which means I will have AP classes mixed with regular classes, and this is the route that will most likely be easiest, b) do the IB Program, which is the most rigorous program our school offers, and dedicate myself to what is essentially going to going to be two years of hell in order to go through this program, or c) take a hell of a lot of classes next year and graduate a year early. I'm most likely going with option B, because the entire reason I went to this school was to do the IB program, but it's nice to have options. _**

**_Also, I went to my first-ever cosplay meet-up/party on Saturday. Long story short: I didn't make a complete idiot out of myself, and that in itself is an accomplishment. For those who want to know, I cosplayed Mayor Pamela Winchell of Night Vale. I had fake blood all over my hands, and I had to keep reminding myself that waving at random passer-bys probably wasn't the best idea. Also, I kicked ass at the trivia game (they said a quote, you had to say what it was from, and got a bonus point if you could name the character as well) and tied for third place. The very best part? The second quote was "Goodbye, John," and about three quarters of the people immediately fell to the ground, shrieking and crying and screaming "TOO SOON!" and "NOOO!" I swallowed past my tears, and raised my hand, and screamed "SHERLOCK FROM SHERLOCK!" and got two points. And then fell to the ground weeping._**

**_Good times, good times._**

**_So, yeah. What else? Errr, not much. I will most definitely be posting a story on Valentine's day (the person this will be dedicated to... you know who you are), and will begin working on another prompt. I am actually about three-quarters done with another one, but I kind of hit a wall with it and am now waiting for inspiration to strike again before I finish it. _**

**_Oh, and one last thing! I have, miraculously, not suffered a mental breakdown yet because of the amount of homework I have on a daily basis. I'm even ahead in some classes. How? I have no fucking idea. But I'm not complaining._**

**_I hope to hear from you all soon, and please, please, please leave a review. You'll make my day warmer and rainier (I'd say sunshine-ier, but California is still in the mmiddle of the drought and we kind of need the rain more). _**

**_Thank you, and I love you all._**

**_Goodnight, or good morning,_**

**_Love, RainyDays-and-DayDreams_**


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